Dark Side of the Sun
by Amber Penglass
Summary: Shepard awakes in the Cerberus facility with no memory of her military life. In fact, her last memory is her identity as Red Widow, a Tenth Street Reds assassin. Cerberus contacts the one person who can track her down- Garrus Vakarian. Teandraverse.
1. Prologue

**Dark Side of the Sun**

_Amber Penglass_

Note: First off, this is primarily a 'for fun' fic, and will not be as long or as fleshed out as some of you may be used to seeing from me. I don't expect a lot of crossover readers from my other fandoms, but in case there are some...

Second, this is an AU spin-off from what many know as the 'Teandraverse,' a timeline featuring a Shepard by MitisVenatrix and LunaMax1214. Reading 'Partners, Comrades, Friends' is highly recommended.

For those of you that are lazy: Teandra Shepard is an earthborn survivor who was raised as a sexually abused assassin for a gang on earth known as the Reds, run by a man named Finch. She escaped into the Alliance military, where the story progressed as usual from there. A very, very strong friendship developed between her and Garrus, though nothing progressed beyond attraction spurred on by daily sweaty sparring bouts (one word: yum). Garrus helps her deal with a major remnant of her past; a semi-cognitive second personality known as the Red Widow, the embodiment of the assassin she'd been in her youth. The story is pure fun, plain and simple, with a less-serious version of Shepard that I enjoy now and again.

This is a darkfic. If you can't handle this prologue (personally, I think it's on the mild side), you won't like the rest of it. You have been warned. Enjoy. :-)

* * *

**Prologue**

It was entirely like she remembered it. Narrow streets built before the advent of aircars. Tall buildings next to short, with zero attention to aesthetics on a whole. Trash was compacted into every corner, every gutter. The street would fill with mud when it rained. There was graffiti on every surface, layers and layers deep, so many colors that one tag was inseparable from another. Raucous music and drunken noises poured from several open doorways. This was the heart of the world she remembered, and it had taken her nearly a month to find her way back.

She frowned. A month. How much more time had been lost? Her recollections were…hazy- _'Not hazy! Gone!'- _and she didn't like it. The last thing she recalled clearly was just another kill, just another gang boss who thought he could help himself to something belonging to Finch. She licked her upper lip at the memory. He'd given her chocolates, before she'd put a stiletto through each eye. She'd sat on his bed and ate every decadent piece while he'd died and rivers of red ran from his eyes to soak the carpet. The memory was still sweet on her tongue.

Then…then there had been that lab. And a woman. Long brown hair, suspiciously Australian-esque accent… Oh, and the lump of dark man-meat. Mmm. Can't forget him. Now he was one she wouldn't have minded having for an assignment…so long as she'd gotten to gag him. White lights, needles, beeping…assurances that everything was going to be ok - _'Not ok! This is wrong!'_ - and endless questions.

They'd told her what her name was. Her history. What's she'd done, who she'd been. She remembered nothing of it. She told them they had the wrong person- people didn't come back from the dead. They'd droned and droned until she couldn't bear it anymore.

She wondered if it had occurred to them that if she was capable of using her new abilities on their enemies, she was also capable of using those same powers on _them_? It sure as hell had been easy to surprise her guards - _'I'm sorry, so sorry!'_ - with biotic shocks and shivs to the arteries.

Stealth had suited her for getting out of that place and on her way here. Keeping her head down, unnoticed, in a galaxy she knew she didn't understand had been the intelligent thing to do. No matter what they told her, she remembered nothing beyond the run-down, old world town of Charleston.

She'd even managed to keep the number of deaths in her wake to a minimum. Violent, rash, outright insane- those were all words for her, but stupid was not among them. She knew a body trail too thick would bring problems. She had no doubt the Princess, as she liked to call the woman, would try to track her. When she'd been hopping from port to port, ship to ship with money stolen off her victims, the prospect of being caught -by anyone, really- had been something she'd been wary of.

But now that she was home, now that she was back among those she knew, walking streets that were hers, she stretched out her legs, held her head high, and let a delightfully insane smile spread across her face. She had a gang to protect, blood to spill, people to fuck.

Noises, closer than the ones oozing from the dim doorways. She turned her sights to a nearby alley, sniffing the dank night air and tilting her ears as if those senses could tell her more than what she already knew. Someone was in trouble... Even in her own mind, the conclusion was delivered with a sing-song lilt.

Curious, and more than a little exhilarated, she ventured closer. There was a man, pushing something smaller than himself up against a wall. Two bodies were at his feet, the scent of copper mingling with that of trash and decay. The girl -for that's what he was pushed up against- was making muffled noises of protest. The man's hand was over her mouth, and his dick inside her. She was crying, but not the tears of a tortured girl- rather, they were tears of rage. She didn't fight, not because she was defeated, but because she knew there was no point. She'd bear this, the price of a failed bait-and-steal. She'd hope he didn't kill her when he was done, and the find herself another pair of thugs for her operations.

The man didn't notice her standing at the mouth of the alley. Stupid- lack of observation meant an early death in her world. And this was, most definitely, _her_ world. She reached up, idly playing with a length of sharpened metal used to hold tousled strands of blood red in a messy knot at the back of her head. The unchecked violence made her smile. Her journey through Citadel space had been agonizingly...clean. Rapes happened behind locked doors, not out in open alleys. She really could care less -_'No! I do care! Stop this!'_- about the stupid girl, but at least this scenario promised to be more entertaining than a continued waltz down filthy streets. Watching the man pound the angry girl into the wall, knife to her throat, it made her smile. Made her remember. She started debating- throat, or eyes? Eyes always seemed so...poetic. Yes, eyes. A tribute to her last memorable kill.

He finished, as she watched, with a shuddering grunt, grabbing the girl by her filthy hair, hauling her head back to a painful angle. It worked out very well for his watcher- with the girl's head blocking his line of sight to the end of the alley, it was laughably easy to traipse through the muck until she was standing close enough to smell him. Cheap booze, piss, vomit, semen, sweat- all the nasty things a human body could possibly produce.

He spun the girl around on the wall, clumsily, knife still to her throat. He opened his mouth to say something- she didn't wait to hear what. Her own hand came up, gripping the dull knife he held by the blade, putting her own fingers between the sharp edge and the girl's trachea- it was barely sharper than a butter knife. He turned, dim eyes bloodshot and unintelligent. She smiled at him, and with a flick of her wrist removed the stiletto from her hair, and plunged it through his left eye and deep into his brain tissue. For good measure, a spark of purple danced down the length of the metal, and an unfamiliar scent wafted up from his ruined eye socket as he fell- sizzled brain matter. Oh, now that was something she could get used to.

Still up against the wall -impressive, she was still standing at all- the girl snarled at her. She was rewarded with a blow to her midriff, driving all oxygen from her lungs. The girl gasped and choked, and her 'rescuer' grinned. Her other hand latched around the throat so recently protected by those same fingers. She leaned in close, blocking her senses against more assaults of sweat, blood, tears-

"_Run_." She stepped back, and the girl obeyed, snarling and glaring but ultimately running down the alley, pulling tattered skirt down over sticky thighs. At the sight, something suddenly felt not sated, but unleashed- a fire stoked that had been banked for what felt like years. A laugh utterly lacking in anything resembling sanity escaped her lips.

Red Widow was home.


	2. Chapter I

**Dark Side of the Sun**

Amber Penglass

_Chapter I_

* * *

Miranda Lawson was, in a word, perfect. Her skin never knew a blemish, and cybernetics kept scarring to a minimum. Genetics would keep her form sublime even if mental conditioning didn't drive it to physical extremes on a regular basis. To boot, she was insanely intelligent. Which made it rather difficult to deal with people who were, to be polite, _un_intelligent. On a project like this, she had expected to be surrounded by only the best and brightest. And for the most part, it was true- except, apparently for today. Her only saving grace was, she told herself, she had a decent handle on her tolerance for stupidity, elsewise she may have done something drastic long ago.

Like what she was considering now. Which was really unthinkable. Even with her biotic abilities, she was pretty sure that Officer Arbuckle's body would not bend the way she imagined. At least, not with any likelihood of survivability.

"We've been over the footage a hundred times, Dr. Lawson." Arbuckle's face was tight, puffy features illuminated by the orange omniscreens. "There was no one helping her. There is nothing on the vids to tell us how she got out."

_'Not my fault,'_ Miranda read, and an eyebrow twitched. Of course- if she took the testimony of everyone she talked to at face value, it was no one's fault, and God himself had helped the subject get free.

"There had to be." Clipped and terse, her voice was as level as she could make it. "Even she couldn't just waltz out of here like she did."

Arbuckle glanced back to one of the screens, frozen on a frame of two men being enveloped in dancing blue sparks. "I wouldn't say she _waltzed_..."

In the end, the woman was dismissed pending investigation, and Miranda was left to discover how, exactly, the most expensive and cutting edge experiment done on humanity, ever, had walked out of her room, murdered her two guards, and then simply vanished from the facility. Hours of filtering through digital surveillance feeds told her nothing. Questioning guards even less.

The boss was not going to be happy. Which meant Miranda was not happy. When Miranda was not happy, no one was happy. It was a rule that had suited her well thus far- things got done.

"Taylor!" She snapped at the agent who had the bad luck to be the first person she'd seen after stepping out of her quarters, and thus had found himself her personal lackey throughout the day. Oddly, he didn't seem to mind. Either that, or his poker face rivaled hers.

"Ma'am." His response, his tone, his posture was perfect. Perfect enough that she thought she read a smidgeon of… No, now she was being paranoid.

"Come." She swept past him, heeled boots clicking sharply on the pristine tiles. He fell into step behind her. "I want teams sweeping this quadrant. No ships have left since she disappeared, only ejected trash debris. She must still be here. No ships are to disembark or be allowed to dock until we find out what the hell happened."

"Ma'am."

They arrived at the pair of silver doors quicker than she would have liked. Scowling, she keyed in the code, and stepped through. Taylor didn't follow. Smart boy.

The room was dark, save for the reflective ring on the floor. She stepped inside it's confines, and heard the click of motion sensors kicking in. Within moments, a familiar, flickering image of a man lounging in an uncomfortable looking chair, cigarette in hand, inhuman eyes rooting her in place in a way no one else had ever managed. She ignored the warmth that spread out and up from a specific point in her anatomy that she refused to acknowledge. She had plenty of practice- it was the same tingling warmth that made her catch her breath every time she saw him.

"Explain," he said, and she squared her stance, and obeyed.

* * *

"Alenko. Seriously. If you don't, I will personally relieve you of the balls you obviously have no use for." Private Cassidy was thoroughly out of line, and they both knew it. They also both knew that Lieutenant Commander Kaiden Alenko would do nothing beyond a roll of his eyes. The topic in question, a sultry brunette sitting at a nearby table at Flux, fixed him with another piercing stare, chest heaving gently in a low, dark top and glanced away. Sooty lashes brushed high, perfect cheekbones as she bent to sip at a drink with lips designed -according to Cassidy- to fit around something thick and warm.

He sighed and ran a hand over his head, thinking he needed a hair cut soon. He was no where near being out of regs, but it still felt unnatural to have more than fuzz on his scalp. He let the stray thought distract him for a moment, before glancing back to his two companions. He was only here as a favor to begin with. Kinda defeated the purpose of being the designated adult if he abandoned his charges. He trusted Cassidy and Monroe by themselves at a bar about as much as he trusted Council to admit the Reaper threat was real...which was to say, not at all.

He winced at the thought. He'd promised himself he wasn't going to go there tonight. At least, as little as possible, considering the date. Not for the first time, he wondered if Cassidy and Monroe were smarter than they looked- if they'd planned this. He'd just settled himself down with a large bottle of something corrosive and brain-numbing when these two knuckleheads had barged in and informed him that they required a designated driver for their night out. They'd pulled every string they knew of, and despite having served under him for less than a year, they knew quite a few. First of which being, he took care of his men. It was something he'd learned from the best-

He slammed back the rest of his shot. _Not_ going there. That was, after all, the reason he'd decided to come along rather than sit and wallow in a drunken stupor in his room. He hadn't intended to drink when he'd come out, but the two louts under his charge had made it clear they intended on being here for a while, so he'd gone ahead and ordered a few, with the intention of leaving himself plenty of time to sober up. He'd meant for this to be his last drink, but when Monroe clumsily splashed more dark liquor into his glass, he didn't stop him.

Suddenly feeling fed up with the whole situation -why shouldn't he get laid tonight?- he tossed back the newly poured shot, and approached the brunette. She was perched on a stool at a high, round bar table sitting as prim as any princess, while her eyes were better suited to a highly paid whore- they looked him up and down as he approached. Alenko hadn't been celibate these past few years, but that didn't mean he'd been swimming in poon-tang, either.

He walked up, giving her that slow smile girls seemed to like, the one that said, 'I'm harmless, really.' She opened her mouth to respond, still smiling. What she said, though, completely shocked the half-smile off his face.

"Kaiden Alenko. I need your help finding Teandra Shepard."

Was this some sort of joke? He felt his face harden, expression shut down, stance stiffen. Immediately, she reached over a slender hand, and laid it gently on the forearm he'd rested on the tabletop. She leaned in, smelling of something he couldn't identify as anything other than bottled sex. A strand of hair fell forward over her shoulder as she leaned in, brushing the top of his hand.

"This is not a joke." What, she was a mind reader too? Fingers started tracing patterns through the fabric of his casual shirt. "My name is Miranda Lawson. I work with Cerberus. I approached you this way so that your superiors would not know, would have no reason to be suspicious of you. It will not help my cause if you are concerned with negative repercussions following our...liaison." Her clipped, precise words caught his interest, if nothing else. Dark, bitter emotions still swirled in the back of his mind like rotting puss from an old would reopened. But he listened. If nothing else, she had a pleasant voice, some accent he hadn't spent enough time on Earth to place.

Seeing she had his attention, she continued. "One month after the destruction of the Normandy, Cerebus operatives recovered Commander Shepard's remains. Due to unique atmospheric conditions, not only was her body relatively intact despite orbital reintry, but her brain tissue was...sustained."

"Sustained."

"Preserved. While technically dead, Commander Shepard's neural pathways remained intact. Chemical compounds prevented mummification while also preventing decay." It was clear she was dumbing this down. He was too aggravated on a whole to care.

"Cellular reanimation is still beyond modern medicine." He posed it as a statement, but some part of him heard it as a question.

Miranda Lawson fixed him with a stare more serious than the coy one she'd been maintaining. "Not anymore."

At least he remembered to breathe while his brain processed her statement.

"I think, Ms. Lawson, we should discuss this...elsewhere." His voice, thankfully, managed to sound less strangled than he thought it would. She responded by giving him an absolutely smouldering glance through long lashes while digging something out of a small black clutch. A keycard. Of course. The look had been for the sake of appearances- not that he really cared. Any thought he'd had of sex had gone out the window as soon as he'd latched on to what he thought the woman was trying to tell him.

She stood, and he followed, faintly registering the sounds of Cassidy and Monroe cheering a ways away. He spared enough of his focus to hope they managed to find their way home unhindered, and then they were dismissed from his thoughts entirely.

Flux had recently hammered out a deal with a developer who had somehow found room above and to the side of the club for small cluster of small, very expensive rooms. The Lawson woman led him through a pair of doors at the far end of the bar, down a narrow hall, and into a small lift. They rode in silence, both examining the other without trying to hide their interest. When the lift came to a smooth halt, they kept up their examinations for a hair longer than what was strictly necessary.

The room he followed her into was small, but luxurious. Wooden panels, thick swags of fabric. Not at all like the rest of the Citadel, where clean lines and solid colors prevailed. Lawson seemed to see none of it, turning to face him with hands on hips as soon as the door was closed.

"The room is safe from bugs. Ask what you want."

He wasn't used to dealing with such frankness, especially from Cerberus. They tended to be on the elusive side. He frowned as he considered his scenario. His head was reeling with questions, and all seemed equally important. Finally, he picked on that seemed to sum up most of them.

"Did it work?" The voice that came out of him was not his own- it was a voice he'd been striving for two years to bury, the voice of a man who thought he'd found what he was looking for, and had lost it.

"Yes."

He took a deep breath. "When?"

"One standard galactic month ago."

He raised one hand to his scalp again, taking slow steps past her to the window. He let that sink in. A month. If this woman was to be at all trusted, Shepard had been alive again for a month.

"Is it...her?"

Silence. He turned, and found Lawson's face pinched. "We thought so."

He didn't prod for an explanation. It would come, or it wouldn't. She went to a lounge chair and draped herself over it. She seemed to think for a moment, then said, "We...tampered. We had plans for her. Our sources had turned up evidence of a very troubled childhood. We wanted to...isolate that. Make her more stable. It worked better than anticipated, but in a way we hadn't anticipated." The scowl she wore wasn't aimed at him. He wondered if it was for herself.

Alenko sucked in a breath.

"What do you need me for?"

"Shepard escaped our facility soon after she was brought out of the coma we'd kept her in during the last of the procedures. At first, it looked like she'd lost all her memories." She tapped lacquered nails against the armrest of the chair. "She may have been telling the truth, but I tend to think she kept some recollections, most likely the ones from before her life brought her into the military. The things she did to escape...they were not things that would have been done by the Shepard we had profiled."

"That still doesn't tell me what you hope to get out of me."

"We can't find her."

That floored him. Cerberus had virtually unlimited resources- there was no one they couldn't find. "And you think I can?"

"We hope you can."

Alenko scowled, and turned away from her, towards the window again. The blinking lights of the Citadel carpeted his vision. Against that backdrop, a face hovered in his mind's eye. Grey bone plates, blue clan markings.

Alenko had stopped fooling himself a long time ago- he'd never known Teandra as well as he'd liked. If Cerberus had accidentally erased all but Teandra's childhood memories, then he didn't even know this woman they wanted him to help them find.

But he knew someone who would. And damn, if that didn't sting. So much for avoiding talking about Teandra Shepard on the two year anniversary of her death.

"I can't help you. But Garrus Vakarian can."

* * *

Next chapter, we finally get some Garrus goodness. :-D


	3. Chapter II

**Dark Side of the Sun**

_Amber Penglass_

Chapter II

* * *

"…Palaven whiskey, Thessian bourbon, hard ryncol, skyllian vodka. Oh, and I even dug up some Caribbean rum for you, boy." The batarian bartender plunked down the last of the bottles he'd carried over to their table with a self-satisfied smirk. None of the bottles had labels, of course- they were probably all contraband. Most things of worth on Omega were. But at least this particular batarian bar owner paid for his wares honestly enough, and didn't swindle them off of pirates. And, he never charged them. That in and of itself was enough to tempt a crowd like this one, vigilantes or no.

"You never disappoint," the youngest of the group said with a lopsided grin. A wiry human they called Butler, he let a sizzle of his considerable biotic powers dance over the mouth of the bottle of rum, melting the seal and making it easy for a human fingernail to pop it off.

"Hey, here now," The only other human present swiped it from his grasp before he could take a swig. "I'm thinking that's a little strong for you, eh?" Raucous laughter followed the statement. Most of them were already on their way to a good time- Canderous Ordo was just the farthest along, making him far more 'jolly' than the grizzled veteran would ever admit to. Butler snorted good naturedly, and snatched the bottle back from the older human's clumsy grasp.

The bottles made their way to the ones who could consume them without melting their innards, glasses were filled and the table collected another round of splashed puddles. The individual at the head of the table, clad in only half his usual armor, raised the bottle of blue Palaven whiskey, and for a moment the cacophony at the table died down.

"My friends, it is with great dignity-" Snickers, from the krogans. A half-hearted glower shut them up. "-great dignity that I tell you all that this is by far the most resounding, triumphant mission yet. So, here's to you, my brothers-" A jab from a bony, scaled elbow to his left made him grunt. "-and sisters." He took a large gulp from his bottle, as the others did the same or else slammed back shots. The Turian who had spoken lowered the bottle, and looked around the table as his comrades resumed their previous conversations- if one could call their rambling, exuberant jabbering 'conversations.' Still, it was pleasant to watch them all. Basking in their victory, in the only place they could consider 'safe' outside their own stronghold, it was…nice. It was a word he hadn't expected to apply to anything in his life ever again.

Garrus Vakarian flared his mandibles in a Turian grin, and took another swig. Sure, Teandra was still dead, his career shot to hell, and he called the asshole of the universe 'home,' but all things considered…it could be worse.

Eventually, the celebration died down. The flow of liquor slowed, then stopped as they all let themselves sober up marginally. As much as they'd come to trust -as far as anyone could on Omega- the owner and bouncers of Tar'Valon bar, that trust of course did not extend to the streets beyond. There were many who would gladly pounce on a drunken patron upon exit. Some were even stupid enough to attack a group as large as this. Garrus's team hadn't survived this long by taking chances- so, they waited until they were clear headed enough to stand on their own feet before pushing back chairs and stools, and lumbering out the door.

Garrus threw a few credit chips to the bar owner, though they had a long-standing agreement about payment- rather, that they didn't pay at all. It was an arrangement that had come about when Garrus had first arrived on Omega and, in a moment of suicidal melancholy, had rescued the batarian from a rather precarious situation that had involved a few members of the Blue Suns, a large knife, and the batarian's reproductive organs.

Still, they'd most certainly drained more of the owner's stocks than usual, and he felt it appropriate to give the guy something. Apparently the batarian agreed, as he pocketed the chips with a nod as he approached the booze-drenched table with a cloth.

The good mood of the group continued as they made their way through the streets and alleys of Omega, taking a very long, winding route to ensure no one was following. Eventually they reached a dilapidated apartment building, and half of them veered off. In this lower-rent area, it wasn't uncommon for multiple people to share a living unit. Five was not an unreasonable number, and that was how many disappeared inside. Of course, they didn't actually live there, though there was an unit rented out to Ordo, with the Krogan brothers, the Salarian, and Butler listed as co-inhabitants. Of course, none of them actually resided there.

When the rest of the group reached a second apartment complex, they did the same thing Garrus knew Ordo and his group were doing at theirs; passing straight through to the basement, and traversing the network of sewers and forgotten corridors to a more remote area of Omega, past most of the warehouses and to an old administration building. Garrus emerged from the sub level of their headquarters followed by Jintah, Sidonis, Boomer, Chaven and Kheron. The other half of their group had arrived before them, the Krogan brothers already passed out on two of the couches. Butler and the Salarian were nowhere to be found, but he saw evidence of their passing in shoes and jackets dropped by the door.

Satisfied his team had made it safely 'home,' Garrus retreated to his own space, a room towards the front of the building on the second floor. It was more of a loft, really, with a bed shoved in the far corner and a locker at its foot. A set of curved wires stuck into the wall played host to the pieces of his armor as he removed them. His boots he set by the bed, taking his time to not fall over- his head was still swimming in whiskey, and he was aware he would have a headache the next day. But it had been worth it. After the hell they'd all gone through the past two months, they'd deserved it.

They'd taken out a large slaving ring that had set up their new headquarters in Omega. Their first mistake had been dealing in children. Once Garrus had gotten wind of their existence, he doubted he would have stayed on Omega much longer. Their second mistake had been setting up shop in his backyard, making it unnecessary for him to leave. It would have been a coup worthy of the history books, if they'd been an actual law enforcement body. Instead, they had to be content with anonymity, and the looks of tentative hope on the faces of the cells full of underage boys and girls of every race.

Oh yeah, it had been worth it. Every once in a while, he felt like he mattered. It never lasted, of course. In a week or two he'd stumble across something that shoved him right back down in the depressed black hole that was his usual mood set. At least he was usually stable. Sitting down at the edge of his bed, he ran his talons over his fringe, and gave a stunted laugh. Stable. Right. He wasn't sure he'd ever been stable, to be honest. Hot-headed turian military officer, turned over-eager C-Sec agent, turned galactic hero, turned depressed vigilante. Definitely not a path of life most normal people would choose, let alone find themselves actually living. Made him wonder if the Spirits liked him, or hated him. Nowadays, he opted for the latter. Not that he was complaining, mind- he'd gotten past that a long time ago. Two years, in fact. Now, he just handled what was thrown at him, and kept going. It was that, or curl up and never open his eyes again, and that simply wasn't an option. So, pigheaded persistence it was. So far, it was working out alright. At least, he ventured to think the three dozen children they'd liberated into the hands of a passing Alliance science vessel would agree.

"Vakarian." He looked up at the mention of his name. One of the other three Turians on his team was standing at the other side of the room, leaning against the pillar that supported that corner. He blinked through the remnant haze of booze and self contemplation before nodding. The turian, shorter than he and somewhat more wiry, pushed away from the pillar and strode across the room, datapad in hand.

"Thought you should see this. This came through one of our more secure channels while we were out." Lantar Sidonis had been with Garrus the longest. He was, in part, one of the reasons their operation was the way it was. If he were to be honest with himself, he was also part of the reason Garrus hadn't drunk himself to death his first week on Omega. He accepted the orange datapad without wincing at its brightness, focusing instead on the words that spread out across it's surface.

"_Alenko_?" He said aloud before he could stop himself. "What the hell does he want?"

Sidonis shrugged. "Didn't make much sense to me. Figured it would to you. And I thought you could use another mission... Maybe stave off that post-mission funk you usually like to sink into." Garrus glanced up at him briefly, but let the jab go- it was true, after all.

'_Vakarian-_

_Don't know if this will even make it to you. I used up a lot of favors to get a shot at it, though, so here goes- I was approached by an agent from some old friends, people whose messes we cleaned up after quite a bit in the old days.'_

Alright, that was vague- they'd cleaned up after a lot of people. ExoGeni, Saleon, Cerberus, even the Alliance.

'_They say that they found something that used to be ours. Fixed it, tried to bring it back. Then they lost it, and were hoping I could find it. Thing is, they did something to it that corrupted some of the data, and in doing so lost the parts that I knew. The only parts left are ones that only you ever knew about, if I'm right.'_

What in the world was the boy rambling about? Something that was theirs? he never shared anything with the biotic-

Except...

No, couldn't be. He kept reading.

'_Their intel -what they shared- seems to indicate it might have ended up back on Earth. If that's the case, and if I'm right, then you may know where on Earth. If you can get it back, our old friends are willing to pay out the nose. And...if they're right, and not jerking me around, then it'd be worth finding even without the creds. I know I'd give anything to have it back again. Contact me if you get this, and I'll see what I can do about getting you more info._

_ -Alenko'_

Garrus lowered his hand, expression puzzled. After a pregnant pause he glanced up at Sidonis. "Wake up Chaven, have him track this."

The other turian snorted. "Won't like that."

"I don't care. If..." he glanced don at the datapad. "If the human's hinting at what I think he is, then I don't care if the batarian never sleeps again. Track it, and soon as he does, get me transportation to wherever it was sent from."

Something flickered across Sidonis's eyes, too fast for Garrus's still soused mind to track. But he saw it, and registered it, and was alert enough to wonder what it meant. Then the moment was gone, and his XO -if there was one, it was him- nodded, and left.

Garrus read, reread, and read again the message that blazed up at him from the too-bright screen. Was it possible?

He knew better than to hope. It was bad enough he was letting himself be intrigued enough to check it out further, but that was as far as he'd let himself go. Get more info, and then -and only then- would he consider giving the wild idea in the back of his addled brain the time of day. Until then...

He dropped the datapad to the small table at his bedside, and flopped back down onto the canvas cot. Unsurprisingly, he did not sleep. Instead, he saw something he'd spent the last two years trying not to see whenever he closed his eyes- strange, alien red hair, and a pair of large purple-blue eyes.

* * *

The woman who stood before Griss was a whipcord of muscle and bone. While she was overall small, 'petite' was as inaccurate a term for her as 'diminutive' was for a white quasar. She pulsed with energy, rocking slightly on the balls of her feet, seemingly unable to keep still. A haphazard mass of red hair was kept away from her face with a pair of steel sticks he'd bet were sharpened. Eyes of an indistinguishable color - at least at this distance- surveyed him with an unmistakable gleam of boredom. Legs were encased snug black leggings, heavy boots of dark, worn leather on her feet. She wore what looked like several layers of tank tops and a leather jacket on her torso. Thumbs were hooked into the pockets of her jacket, her left index finger was tapping the leather in an increasingly annoying staccato.

"So, just to be clear," Griss sat forward in his chair, set on a half-foot high platform towards the back of his personal favorite bar- which happened to double as the new headquarters for the remade Reds. "You want...this seat?"

"Sure. It has the best view." She gave him a grin that bordered on maniacal. She was obviously insane. Not just for having waltzed in and demanded he give up his seat, the nicknamed 'Red Throne.' It was actually just a regular brown chair, but the locals didn't seem to care.

Despite himself, Griss was amused. The chit was surrounded by a dozen or so of his cohorts, all armed to the teeth and grinning from ear to ear. Well, except Doug- he was scowling. Kid had taken it into his head that Griss was going to change things for the better. Right. Better, sure- but better for himself, not necessarily for the gutter rats of Charleston. As a side-affect, the lanky youth was, for lack of a better term, protective not just of Griss, but of his image. A skinny ginger waltzing into his place of business and addressing him directly was apparently something Doug took offense to, on Griss's behalf.

"So? You gonna be a gentleman?" Her grin widened. "Or am I gonna make that 'Red Throne' nonsense accurate?"

Griss snorted. "You can try, bitch. If you live, you won't like it." He settled back in his seat, not really expecting her to move, except perhaps to walk away, her suicidal fun at an end.

Then she moved.

That nervous energy, the way she'd been bouncing on her feet, twitching- it had acclimated them to her moving suddenly. They'd stopped seeing it, ignored it. So when she twitched forward in the beginning of a lunge that took her halfway across the room, they didn't register the movement until it was too late. By the time that half dozen men had raised their weapons to fire, she was in Griss's lap- and he'd been right about those hair sticks. Razor points were embedded on either side of his trachea. He coughed and spat- oh God, breathing hurt. But he wasn't bleeding out- she hadn't pierced his carotid artery. He breathed shallowly, her sharpened shivs drawing another drop with every breath he took.

"Fuckin...bitch..."

"Uh huh. I get that a lot." She increased the pressure by a hair, but it was enough to make him grunt. "Call off your dogs. Have 'em toss their weapons up here." Behind her, the club had gone silent. Only the bass of the music continued, a deep, laughing rumble that seemed to mock his rapid heart rate. Of all things, she closed her eyes as he gave the grudging command. A moment later, and the clatter of weaponry began to rain around him. He saw her lips moving- she was counting. The clatter stopped, and she opened her eyes and raised an eyebrow.

"All of it," she said, sounding for all the world like a patient babysitter. Another moment, loaded with tension, and a handful more scuffs as weapons were slid along the floor, a few metallic clangs of knives along for the ride. "Much better," she said, smiling brilliantly. She leaned forward, and planted a wet, hard kiss on his fish-breathing mouth. "Thanks a ton, honey." Then she plunged the shivs home, shifting them slightly to new angles. When she pulled them back out, arms spreading wide, twin spouts of red ruptured from either side of his neck. He grasped at his throat, gagging and choking, as his veins poured out over his fingers, soaking his shirt, seeping down to puddle on the seat of his chair, dripping down the sides...painting it as red as its namesake.

A few moments later, he'd slumped, lifeless, eyes bulging. The woman slipped off his lap, her own front drenched with red, face splattered with more of the same. She turned, grinning at the hapless thugs who looked utterly uncertain of what to do. All but the skinny one, the one who'd been last to relinquish his weapons. He stared at Griss's body, gave a choking sob, and turned to flee. She let him. His babbling would spread the word. The others she gifted with another grin.

"You," she pointed to the biggest male present. "Get rid of that." She waved a careless hand at Griss's cooling form. The others she directed to wipe down her new chair, fetch her a drink. To the patrons that hadn't fled, she commanded they resume what they'd been doing beforehand. The last thug remaining, she coaxed closer with a crocked finger.

"I assume your former boss man slept here, too?" The jaundice-eyed man nodded. "You know where?" He nodded again. "Show me." And she followed him to one of the two doors flanking the platform, pushing it open and leading her down a long hallway void of any doors save the one behind them, and the one ahead. This one he motioned to.

"Locked," he murmured. "Only Griss could get in." It was fitted with a biometric scanner of cheap make, as well as a standard keycard access.

"No worries," she said cheerfully enough, bringing up her omnitool and tapping away. "Go make sure the others are following my orders." The man nodded, and ambled back down the hallway. Alone now, the woman had nothing left to distract her from the voice in the back of her head- the kreening, piercing wail. Sometimes it was inter-spaced with pleading, sobbing, or even anger. The anger was more common now. The wailing only came out when she killed.

_'You bitch! Let me out! This isn't right, and you know it-'_

"Oh, I know it," she murmured. The cardreader and biometric scanner went green, and she shoved the door open. "I just don't care."

* * *

I promised Garrus, and here he is. Think I got a good balance of the angst and determined-to-be-upbeat personality elements Garrus displays in ME2. Tell me what you think, gentle readers. :-)

And Red Widow has taken over the remnants of the Tenth Street Reds. What evil will she unleash upon Charleston? DundunDUN.

-Amber


	4. Chapter III

**Dark Side of the Sun**

_Amber Penglass_

Chapter III

Chapter Warning: The F-bomb.

* * *

The port that Garrus was to meet Alenko at was, in a word, dismal. Not surprising, given that 'dismal' seemed to be the theme of his life. The man himself was, for once, not trussed to the eyebrows in Alliance regalia, instead 'disguised' in civilian garb. Even so, leaning casually against a pile of shipping crates, he looked every inch the military man. Garrus supposed he had an advantage- every turian moved like they were military, since at one point they had all _been_ military. No one could see the difference.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes." The words were drawn out, layered with sarcasm. Alenko jumped, turned, hand ghosting over the pistol holstered at his side. Garrus hoped the man wasn't stupid enough to visit an Omega dock with only one weapon. Then again, he'd come, so Garrus didn't much care. It had been a concession he hadn't expected, that Staff Commander Kaiden Alenko had been willing to step foot on Omega. Despite himself, Garrus appreciated it- he didn't like leaving his team.

Recognizing his one-time shipmate, Alenko relaxed marginally and greeted him with a nod.

"Vakarian. Glad you got my message."

"I'd say I was glad to receive if I knew what the hell you were talking about."

"Shepard's alive."

Well, he'd remembered Alenko not being one for tact -or at least, being bad at it- but a statement like that wasn't one that most people could take with a blink and a thank you. Garrus gaped for half a moment. He hadn't dared hope. Hadn't dared let himself think he was interpreting the poorly coded message accurately.

"Run that by me again?"

Alenko squared off in front of him, taking a deep breath, and began relaying a tale out of a sci fi holovid. Garrus waited before responding, letting the whole thing roll over in his mind.

"And you believe this self-confessed Cerberus operative?" Garrus kept his tone even, forcing his brain to focus on the details.

"She gave me enough evidence to make even you happy," the human replied, bringing up his omnitool. "I'll give it to you, you can take a look at it for yourself. But in my opinion, there are things in here that you can't fake, not even Cerberus."

"I wouldn't bet on that," the turian gave a rumbling exhalation, the human equivalent of a snort. Nevertheless, he brought up his own omnitool and surveyed the data now streaming from Alenko to him. At a glance, it looked legit. Of course he'd have Chaven take a look, but…

No, no hoping. Hope, emotion, got people killed. He shut down his omnitool and fixed Kaiden with a predator's stare.

"Why give me this?" He asked. "_You_ obviously believe all of this. Why not take care of it yourself?"

A dark look passed over the human's face. Years of C-Sec work had given Garrus an unusually acute knack for reading humans.

"Because you knew her better than me," he responded at length. "I tried for days to remember anything she may have mentioned to me that might help me track her." He shook his head. "Truth is, I never knew her as well as I had liked to think. Maybe I knew that woman then and there, but I never knew anything about who she'd _been_. I know she told you." He raised a hand at Garrus's quizzical expression. "Don't ask me how. Not something I'm proud of." He didn't meet the turian's gaze, and Garrus wondered- had the man _spied_ on them? The another part of that diatribe reached him.

"What would it batter who she was?" There had been something in that coded message, something about 'missing data.' There had been something in the Cerberus intel, what little he'd skimmed just now. But he wanted to hear it from Alenko. If it was what he thought...

"Something to do with her memories," the Marine shook his head. "Honestly, from what I can tell, I'm surprise she's as intact as she is. The brain wasn't meant to survive..._preservation_, and still function. As far as they could tell, before she escaped, the last thing she remembered was escaping Earth into the Alliance Military. She didn't even remember boot camp, just Anderson signing off on her paperwork."

Garrus gave a high pitched hiss- a whistle, in human terms of vocal cues. It was what he thought, then. The last thing Teandra Shepard would remember...was life as the Red Widow. An assassin. A broken, mostly insane assassin. This was not good.

"The point is," Alenko continued. "I'm hoping she told you enough to give you an idea about where she might be. We know she headed to Earth, probably trying to contact people she remembers from before joining the Alliance. But that's all. " He looked uncomfortable. "Just…do me a favor, and look at it. And if you decide you don't buy it, fine, let me know. I'm not not going to stop searching, myself, but… I figure you'll have a better chance at actually finding her."

He was right. Garrus knew exactly where Teandra would have gone. Or rather, where the Widow would have gone. Unpleasant memories of the Savior of the Citadel struggling beneath the threat of a mental breakdown, hammered by the demons of her past day and night, rose unbidden. Of Teandra, crying in the arms of the turian she'd known for hardly a day, of the sparring matches that came a hairs-breadth away from cracking that shell that everyone thought was impenetrable. The memories threatened to drown him, for a moment, until he managed to push them aside. He'd been controlling the misery her memory brought for two years now, he wouldn't let it get the better of him.

"Let's go somewhere," he said at length. "You can tell me the rest of what you know." Without waiting to see if Alenko would follow, Garrus turned and headed, for the second time that week, to the Tar'Valon bar. If he kept this up, he might actually have to start paying the bar owner.

* * *

All in all, life as the boss was all right. It had been depressing how easy it had been to take over. She'd heard on the streets that the Reds had become little more than a social gang, but she hadn't believed it until she'd been able to so easily walk in, kill Griss, and bada bing bada boom, be in charge. No one challenged her, no one balked. She was good, but this particular take over had been pathetic. That was the first thing to change- if anyone was going to take her out, they were going to deserve it and the gang they inherited.

She started, of course, by killing people.

For all Griss had been lax in his leadership, he had been a good bookkeeper. In his rooms she'd found ledgers and records, mostly of jobs being done. She'd found the list of names of those who were late with payments, and personally paid a visit to each and every one. She killed them all the same way she'd dispatched Griss, and it became her calling card. There was no disagreement on the streets of who had carried out the chain of killings, and the dance floor of her club buzzed with talk of her ruthlessness. It made her practically hum with satisfaction.

Within a few weeks, payments began coming in more regularly. After the initial slaughter, Red gave a one-time reprieve if the debtors came and acknowledged her. After that, she dug up a gang member who had gone to school for accounting and put him in charge of the books Griss had left behind. Following that, she began her search for a reliable core team. She sent out scouts to discern the extent of the damage to their territory- how much they actually held, as opposed to what they claimed. Those reports always came back negative. It became her primary focus, expanding their territory.

And, of course, there was _her_. Endlessly railing, shouting, screaming, trying to shatter the glass wall that separated them. Red remembered enough to know that, once, they had been on opposite sides of that wall, their positions flipped. She had no intention to returning to the other side, kept in the dark and howling for freedom. She ignored the voice, as much as she could. It was hard- she actually kind of liked her at times. They were, after all, cut from the same cloth. Two sides of the same coin, to abuse the vernacular.

_'If you're going to do this,'_ the other one was growling now._ 'At least do it right!'_

The bitch was, of course, referring to the sniper rifle in Red's lap. A tribute from the latest cell leader technically under her command, who had needed reminding of that fact. The rifle had come after his son had turned up dead in an alley, tainted drugs curdling his veins.

"Shut up," she murmured. To her right, one of the semi-decent fighters she'd dug up out of the ranks glanced to her, then away. They were used to her muttering to herself. She didn't care- it added to her insane persona. Which, if she was honest, wasn't so much a persona as a fact. Either way, it worked for her. People feared what they couldn't anticipate, and there were few things as difficult to anticipate as a homicidal, insane bitch.

_ 'No! I may not be able to stop you, but I can at least try and make sure you hit who you aim at and not some innocent bystander!' _Red winced as the other woman clawed at her mind. _'That scope is useless!'_

The worst part was, she was right. Share a body they might, skills they did not. Somehow, despite lacking any memories explaining why or how, Red had an affection for firearms now. She never had before. Before, it had been about the close and personal. She could break down, rebuild, aim and shoot, but only functionally. Now, she caressed the rifle in her hands like a lover. Problem was, she had no idea what to do with it. The _other one _however, seemed to know exactly what to do. So she either had to listen to her, or ask someone. The latter wasn't an option.

The inner musings of the thoroughly insane leader of the Tenth Street Reds was interrupted by a commotion on the far side of the club. From her vantage point on the platform -raised to a level harder to access- she could just barely see a group of what looked like frat boys looking for a dangerous time. They came through now and again, the military academy boys, the college boys, the rich daddy's boys, muscled and dyed and tanned and thinking that together no one would dare mess with them. So they sought out the seediest, most threatening place, and inevitably ended up at her club. It was a cliche, she knew- hot, lethal female gang leader running things out of a slum club. Sometimes, cliche's existed for a reason- they worked.

"Go see what's going on," she flicked a finger to one of her lieutenants, who strode away with a nod. She went back to examining the rifle in her hands, polishing cloth in one hand. Her basic knowledge of firearms had already let her disassemble it and clean it, but past that...

_'Take that thing off, already,' _she snarled. _'It's a piece of shit that shouldn't be anywhere near a rifle like this.' _Apparently, this particular model was a good one, if the other woman's adulation of the thing were any indication. The 'piece of shit' was in reference to the cheap scope mounted atop it. Following instinct more than anything else- and the faint flickering images that filtered through the glass wall- she pried the scope off, and tossed it over her shoulder. She hefted the rifle, pleased it seemed better balanced, now.

"Still need _some_ sort of scope," she drawled. She knew that much.

_'The one off the Eclipse rifle is better,' _came the grudging advice. Red sent another lackey to fetch it. At the same time he returned with it, the lieutenant she'd sent to investigate the brawl was returning, a few of the bouncers in tow. Two of them had a pair of the frat boys in tight grips, while her lieutenant and a third bouncer had between them another figure, limp and bruised, that had her raising an eyebrow and forgetting the rifle in her hands. In her mind, even her unwanted companion seemed surprised.

The club was exclusively a human establishment. No one had forgotten that under Finch, the Reds had crossed over into the world of anti-alien terrorism. And yet here stood a turian, albeit a drunk and beaten one, hanging his head. Red's gaze flicked to the humans behind him- they bore their fair share of damage.

"Oh, _please _explain this." She set the sniper rifle down by her side, picking up the Eclipse model and working on freeing its scope, eyes never straying from the odd array before her.

Her lieutenant -Mark- snorted. He jabbed the bigger frat boy in the ribs with the butt of his stun-baton. "I'll let him tell it. He has such flair." He grinned at her, which she ignored. She liked him well enough, was a good fuck, but he did have a tendency to be more casual with her than she cared for.

One of the frat boys, the one Mark had indicated, shifted from foot to foot. "Aw, lady, we were just having fun." He nodded to the turian, and gave a laugh. "Dinosaur here wanted in our fraternity. And hey, y'know, we're not xenophobes, we thought hey, we'll give him a shot, y'know?" He glanced around, as if remembering the rumors regarding this particular place of business. "Not that there's nothin' wrong with xenophobes, y'know, to each their own-"

She snapped the scope free. Hahne-Kedar, the name of the brand flitted to her from the _other side._ She tossed the Eclipse rifle aside and picked up her snipe. She stroked it's length, keeping the kid fixed in her sight. She saw him swallow. He stammered through the rest of his story, though she didn't listen. She knew it well enough- trick the alien into visiting a known anti-alien establishment, watch him get the shit beat out of him, see if he survives. All good fun. Turians usually held their own, but this one looked young, probably barely out of the Heirarchy's basic military training. He'd been outnumbered, and probably already heavily intoxicated. Insane she may be, but Red knew how to read an obvious situation. The odds had been stacked heavily against the alien, and something about that bothered her now where it never would have before. Fuck. She hated it when her own personal morale compass decide to move its own north and south. Worse was when she had no explanation for the sudden shifts.

The new scope snapped into place, and she raised it, feeling its weight and making a pleased noise. She peered through the scope, and the frat kid's babbling went silent when it's sighting laser found his forehead. Grinning, she scanned the room. Any firing range instructor would have her head on a platter, flagging as many people as she was. Her sights came to rest on the turian, who chose that moment to look up.

Blue filled her vision, and-

_'No, no nonononononono-'_

Red gave a grunt, but didn't drop the rifle as the other woman started shrieking in her head. With white crosshairs painted across his face, red dot dancing on his forehead plate, the turian with blue clan markings stared up at her through the other side of the lens. Purple bruising was visible across the softer, suede-like flesh of his neck and shoulder, on the bit of abdomen visible through his slashed shirt. Familiarity, swift and gripping, assaulted her. Most of it came from across the glass partition in her mind, but some of it was from herself. Her heart pounded in her chest, adrenaline surging her veins- the precursors to a fight she knew was going to be good. Physical memory, if not a mental one.

Huh. That was interesting.

"Do I know you?" She asked the turian, who gave a start. If he had been drunk coming in, he was sobering up fast. He was obviously debating on his reply- she had heard the rumors of her resemblance to the supposed Savior of the Citadel. Red didn't know or care who she was, and people had learned fast to not mention a certain infamous rank and name around her.

"No," he eventually answered tersely, and although the flange in his voice sent something like a shiver down her spine, it didn't invoke the same deluge of familiarity that his markings had.

She lowered the rifle, drumming her fingers against it's heatsink chamber. At length, she jerked her head towards a side exit. "Get out of my club." He didn't need to be told twice. He shrugged off Mark's grip and stumbled outside. "Follow him," she told her lieutenant. "Make sure he makes it home alive." The message was clear; no one was to try to follow him and finish their 'fun.'

She looked again to the frat boys. She supposed it was time the Tenth Street Reds were taken seriously by the muscle boys of Charleston as well as its debtors. With a swift, smooth movement that bespoke years of forgotten practice, Red raised the rifle, sighted, and shot once, twice. Two artificially dyed and tanned bodies crumpled to the floor as the people behind them shrieked, coated in sprays of red and grey.

The _other _woman was screaming again. '_You were working on it while it was LOADED?'_

_

* * *

_

"How long do you think you'll be?" Sidonis had taken up his usual spot, leaning against that pillar.

"Hard to say. I'm going to give myself a month." And he prayed it would be long enough. Garrus didn't turn from his packing to face his second in command. Sidonis had taken the announcement better than anyone else had, his announcement that he was leaving on a personal mission. He didn't think the others begrudged him his wants, rather they were irked he was going alone. The newest mission they'd undertaken didn't require his presence, but it did require all others. It wasn't a complicated assignment, but it was one that needed numerous hands.

Even now, packing and with transportation arranged to Earth, Garrus wasn't sure what he was doing. Did he believe Alenko? He believed that the man genuinely believed. Did he believe Cerberus? He certainly trusted that they were insane enough to attempt what they claimed. Whether or not they'd succeeded... But he couldn't think of any other reason why they'd have gone to so much trouble. If nothing else, he figured, he owed it to Teandra's memory to figure out why Cerberus found it worth their while to fabricate an extensively complicated hoax about her resurrection. And if she really was alive, by some astronomically expensive medical miracle, and if she really had forgotten her life after the Tenth Street Reds... He knew her well enough to know that she'd rather die all over again that live as the Red Widow.

If all else failed, Garrus swore to honor that one unspoken wish of his best friend.

"Contact me if shit hits the fan." He shouldered his bag, and passed Sidonis with a brief clasp of forearms.

"Then we'll be contacting you daily," the other turian snorted, and Garrus gave him a token grin before heading outside to a transport terminal. Surprisingly, Sidonis followed him, to wait the arrival of the aircar. Silence reigned until the bright red vehicle, pinged all over with dents and bullet holes -how reassuring, he thought- zipped to a stop beside him. Climbing in, he turned to Sidonis, intending to give one last farewell.

Instead, Sidonis reached out and handed him something. It was an unmarked box, decently weighted.

"What's this?"

"Promised I'd replace it, didn't I? I keep my promises." Sidonis took a step back. He seemed to hesitate. Then, "Take care of yourself. The universe can't afford to lose you."

"It can't afford to lose any of us," Garrus responded, thinking of the many conversations they'd had regarding the ratio of goodguys to badguys. Sidonis shook his head.

"Nah, we're...we're all ordinary shmucks, in the end. You're the one that's irreplaceable. Just...remember that." He took another step back, then another, turned and walked back inside.

Odd. Sidonis wasn't usually one for emotional moments. Perhaps some of Garrus's own melancholy tendencies had rubbed off on him. Ah, well. There was no one he trusted more among his men. Whatever it was, he'd get over it. He settled into the side seat of the aircar, and punched in his destination. Zipping away towards the docks, Garrus opened the box, and laughed. His heads up targeting eye piece had been destroyed a few missions back, largely due to Sidonis forgetting to actually aim the grenade launcher he'd been utilizing. Shrapnel had rendered the thing to a lump of sparks and scrap metal. Sidonis had promised to replace it.

Sure enough, sitting in the box, was a new targeting piece- a good one. The arching piece of metal that held the small screen suspended in place was etched with the names of his squadmates. Grinning, he fitted his new toy in place, and spent the rest of the aircar ride calibrating it to his personal specs.

Some time later, he was settled into the cramped seat of a barely space worthy transport ship. Surrounded by the filth and refuge escaping Omega with him, he somehow felt, for the first time in years, a smidgen of hope. His men were making a dent in the corruption of Omega, he had a second in command he trusted to get things done, and -best of all- there was a sliver of a chance he might soon see Teandra. Even if it wasn't really her, even if it was Red Widow he found instead of his old Commander... Hope was hope.

"Hang on, Tandy," he murmured. "I'm coming."

* * *

NOTES:

And we're off! Red and Garrus face off next chapter. And yes, I know, Red broke pretty much every cardinal rule of gun handling known to any sane person. I wince with you, but the rules she broke are there to avoid shooting someone you don't intend to. Given that Red really doesn't care, it fit with her disregarding said rules.

Also, my fellow authors, please take note of my use of 'Marine' for Kaiden and not the 'soldier' I see so often. Any man or woman in the service will tell you quite bluntly that they are NOT the same. You do NOT refer to a Marine as a soldier, and vice versa. This is an oversight on Bioware's part that bugs the HELL out of me when it comes to the class titles. Ashley, I can accept being labeled a soldier since as far as I can tell it's never declared officially one way or the other, and Gunnery Chief is not a rank in the Marine Core or the US Army (Granted, neither is 'Commander,' but they do say point blank numerous times that Shepard is an Alliance Marine, the equivalent of special forces to boot). But having 'soldier' used in reference to Shepard or Alenko is just aggravating.

…./end rant.

Questions, comments, complaints, etc welcome as always. :-)

-Amber


End file.
